


Not a Wedding Day

by lunarlychallenged



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Runaway Bride, as always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarlychallenged/pseuds/lunarlychallenged
Summary: Seventeen is too young to get married, so Race didn't question it when you showed up at the Lodge to run away from your wedding.





	Not a Wedding Day

You hadn’t minded the seclusion of New York City when you moved there from Iowa, but now that you were in a bit of a bind, you wished that you had more friends outside of your usual circle. Maybe friends who didn’t live miles from the church, so you wouldn’t have arrived after dark. 

You knocked on the door to the Lodge, feeling foolish and weary, and struggled to readjust the weight in your hands.

Race opened the door and his face shifted between delight, confusion, and concern. “Y/N,” he said slowly. “It’s good to see you and all, but ain’t you supposed to be-”

“I can explain,” you said, “but I really need you to take this cake.”

Race’s eyebrows shot up as he took the wedding cake out of your hands, careful not to wipe anything on your wedding dress.

 

“Okay, doll,” he said thoughtfully. Race had ushered you down to the basement, not wanting to let any of the boys see you before he knew what he was dealing with. He had insisted that he would carry anything heavy, leaving you to drag the shabby little wagon of your things down the stairs. You probably could have carried it down, but the miserable thumps it gave as it hit each stair felt like it added to the moment.

So now you sat on an old crate, using Race’s vest as a barrier between the dusty wood and your unnecessary dress. He looked at you, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or sigh, and settled for lighting his cigar. “Okay,” he said again. “Lay it on me.”

“I left Martin at the altar,” you said, and gave a hysterical laugh.

You had ditched your wedding day. Maybe that was a predictable move, but you had been moving so fast these days that you didn’t know for sure until today that you weren’t ready to get married.

You were still so young, only seventeen, and were teenagers old enough to get married? You certainly weren’t. None of your friends were engaged yet either, and you felt like you were throwing your life away by tying it to somebody who would surely be expected to control what you were doing. You had moved to Manhattan two years before to go to a boarding school. Boarding school would lead to either a husband or college, where you would meet a husband. The endgame was for you to end up with some rich young man. Iowa had wealthy farmers, like your parents, but your parents wanted you to have legacy money, the kind that lasts for generations and gets your name on some important family trees.

You met Martin at boarding school and agreed to go out on a date with him because you couldn’t think of a reason not to. You had agreed to be his girl because you couldn’t think of a reason not to. Then came the engagement, because though a lack of genuine love seemed like a reason to say no, you had convinced yourself that the love could come later. You liked him just fine, and maybe the love would grow when you got used to him. Martin was nice. He was nice looking, he had a nice voice, and he was nice. Very nice, and very forgettable.

(“What would you have done if you hadn’t fallen in love with him?” Race looked aghast, but he had grown up in a different way.

“Live with him, resent him, and die with him. Like everybody else,” you said. 

“Rich people are ridiculous,” he replied, disgusted.

“We live in a prison of our own making,” you said in a singsong voice. Your smile was a little bitter, but a little nostalgic. It was a prison you would probably be free of once your parents found you, and a part of you would miss it. You would miss the structure, even though you wouldn’t miss the rules. You had not had very many opportunities to make up your own mind, so the idea of having an entire world open to you was daunting.)

All the while, you noticed other boys. Every other boy, really, and even as your family planned out the intricacies of the day, you found yourself sneaking away to talk to the boys your parents would never let you near. The newsies were just so fun, and talking to them made you think that maybe the future could wait for a little while longer.

Race, in particular, made you want to pretend that nothing was happening. Nothing improper ever happened between the two of you. It was harmless flirting, just laughing and sweet talking before you bought a paper. If his smile sometimes dimmed when his eyes caught sight of your engagement ring, neither of you mentioned it. If Martin sometimes wrapped an arm around your waist when he saw the way you laughed at Race’s lines, Race never asked about it later. And when you had your only real argument with Martin, you didn’t tell Race that it was because Martin felt like you liked other boys more than him. 

(“Martin is smarter than I thought,” Race said regretfully, teeth buried in his cigar. “I would have toned it down if I had known he noticed.”

You shrugged. It didn’t matter anymore. Even knowing that you didn’t love him the way a wife ought to love her husband, Martin had planned to marry you. Even suspecting that he did not love you the way you had imagined your husband loving you, you had been willing to give your life over to him.)

It had all come to a head last night, for the most ridiculous reason. You had the wedding rehearsal, and it went as well as you could have hoped, but you were more bothered by the fact that your parents still hadn’t arrived.

Martin had looked hopeful and eager, but his face had fallen further and further each time he saw you looking for your mother and father instead of looking at him. By the end, neither of you wanted to look at the other.

“Y/N, why don’t you go call the hotel to see if they’ve checked in,” he said in a defeated voice.

You, chest flooding with dread, tried. 

“Mr. and Mrs. L/N? There’s no reservation for anybody by that name,” the receptionist said with sickly sweet regret.

“Could you check again? They’re supposed to be here for my wedding tomorrow,” you insisted.

With a sigh and aggressively flipping pages, the receptionist returned to the phone. “Their reservation was cancelled a week ago. If they’re going to the wedding, they must be staying at a different hotel.”

You called home next, feeling absolutely sick to your stomach. With each ring of the phone, you got a little more hopeful. Maybe they weren’t at home, after all. Maybe they were staying at a different hotel, like the woman had said. Maybe they were just going to arrive in the morning and spend the night with Martin’s parents before going home.

“Hello?” Your mother sounded cheerful, interested, and nowhere near sick enough to warrant missing your wedding.

“Ma,” you said stiffly. “Isn’t there somewhere you ought to be? Somewhere, maybe, hundreds of miles from where you are right now?”

“Y/N! How are you, dear? Ready for the big day?”

“Mother, I would be much closer to ready if you were here, like I thought you would be,” you snarled.

“Oh, didn’t your father call?” The happiness had drained from her voice in no time at all. “We aren’t able to come. There was an accident on the farm, and your father was needed-”

You stopped listening. They weren’t coming. You were supposed to walk down that aisle tomorrow night to stand next to Martin, and your father wasn’t going to walk you. You were supposed to put on that dress without your mother there to encourage you past all of the jitters. But, most importantly-

“What is the point of putting on this show if my audience isn’t even going to show up?” The question was half whisper, half shriek, and you threw down the phone with a vicious satisfaction before your mother could answer.

It was an interesting thought. The wedding was a show that you were putting on for your folks; a show that would guarantee their paying for your schooling and clothes. It was a show, and once you found out that they weren’t coming to see it, you weren’t all that interested in putting it on.

(“So why did you get all gussied up?”

“Just wait, Race. I’m getting to it.”)

You tried to go through with it. You put on the dress. You were in the back of the church, letting your friends fawn over your hair. You stepped out for a minute to “get some air.”

You stepped into the room where you would have the reception. The cake sat there, large and white and beautiful, and you weren’t happy when you saw the little figures on top. There was you, small and happy looking, but the boy standing next to you didn’t look like the boy you wanted to see.

(“Who did you want to see?” Race looked infuriatingly smug as he pulled his cap off of his matted curls.

“Nobody,” you lied. “I realized that I wasn’t ready to get married yet, and seeing him there felt wrong.” It was only half a lie, but there was an important omission. You really weren’t ready to get married; that was an indisputable truth. But looking at the little likeness of Martin on that cake, you realized that you knew what boy belonged there. You may not have been in love with Race yet, but you knew it was coming. You could imagine yourself in the same church, looking at the same cake, a few years in the future, seeing a figure designed to look like a Race that had grown up. One that had filled out a little. One that saved money for months to buy a suit and a ring.

“Sure thing, doll,” he smirked.)

You rushed outside, already panting in the restrictive and itchy dress. A small boy was walking along the street, pulling a wagon full of newspapers to sell.

“Kid! I’ll buy all of your papers, and I’ll triple the price if you let me take the wagon.”

He gaped at you, taking in the dress and the panic on your face. Finally he shrugged, his narrow face betraying the longing for the kind of money you were offering.

You piled all of your things into the wagon, deciding that since your parents were paying for the reception, all of the food was yours to take. You took everything that fit in the wagon, letting it balance precariously, and carried the cake yourself as you shuffled away from the chapel.

“So now I’m here,” you finished with a cheesy grin. You spread your arms dramatically, gesturing to the cobwebs and the mouse droppings. “Your very own bachelorette. Homeless bachelorette,” you corrected thoughtfully. Your parents would probably refuse to pay for school now that you had left Martin, so you had no place to stay.

Race looked at the food. You could see the hunger in his eyes, a hunger that you had never experienced. “Whatcha gonna do with the haul?”

You grinned, the first real smile of the day. “I came here to share it with all of you.”

Race’s jaw dropped and the cigar fell from his lips.

You caught it deftly and handed it back, cheeks beginning to burn. Maybe it had been a bad idea. “It’s all mine, and everybody else that I would have shared it with would want me to try to patch things up with Martin. I like all of you, and if I’m going to celebrate my newly found freedom, I want it to be with you. If you guys want it, anyway.”

Race looked at you solemnly, but his eyes danced. “Careful, babe. At this rate, every guy in the place is gonna want to marry you before the night is out. Some of the girls too, if the cake tastes as good as it looks.”

You smiled and bumped your hip against his when the two of you stood. “There’s only one who stands a chance.”

 

The party at the Lodge was more fun than you had imagined your reception being. There were no plates or forks to be had, so the cake was cut using the frames of Specs’ glasses and cradled in hands. The boys would pound out rhythms to dance to and sing any songs they could think of. You were passed from boy to girl without any pattern, twirling and laughing with each partner. Some of them you knew, some of them you didn’t.

It was a feast for them. The food was certainly better than anything you were used to, but you suspected that some of the kids had never had anything like it before, so you ate sparingly to let them eat as much as their empty bellies could hold. The food was demolished.

By the end of the night, when the high had died down and the newsies headed off to bed one by one, you were laying on top of a table. Smalls had helped you pull out the dozens of pins holding your hair up, so your scalp was breathing for the first time all day with your hair spreading across the tabletop.

“How you doing, kid?” Jack Kelly stood above you, smiling fondly down at you. You had never met him before, but anybody who brings such a load home for his crew was apparently trustworthy. 

“I’m swell,” you yawned.

“What’re you gonna do now?” His question was a valid one, but it made your stomach flip.

“I dunno,” you replied. “Nothing I’ve done before, I’m sure.”

He dropped a set of clothes on the table. You squinted at them through the sleepy fog, but thought that he had brought a spare pair of trousers and a button down shirt. They were so big that you could probably swim in them, but at least you’d be out of the dress. “Do you have a place to sleep?”

You shrugged. “I have this table, if nobody else needs it.”

“Naw, you’ll get a real place. You’ll have to pay to stay here, if you’s gonna stay, but you can spend the night while you think it through. Race! Hook the lady up with the nicest bed we’s got to offer,” Jack bellowed.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Race gave a jaunty salute to Jack before offering you his arm. “Welcome to the Lodge, Y/N. It’s home to the greatest company you’s ever gonna keep.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?” you asked. You had lost your shoes sometime during the night. You wouldn’t mind never seeing them again, but if you found them, maybe you could hawk them for some money to spend on getting some semblance of a life back.

“Like me,” he said with pride.

You squeezed his arm, but you didn’t say anything. He wasn’t wrong. Your dance with him had been your favorite. He liked to twirl you and when you got too dizzy, he would pull you up onto the tips of your toes so he could twirl himself under your fingers.

He walked you into a room filled with bunk beds, all of them filled with sleeping newsies. He walked you between beds, warning you in low whispers about raised floorboards and forgotten shoes to watch out for. The room smelled like sweat and dirt, but you thought that you could get used to it. At least nobody expected anything from you here. In the back corner, Race set you up on the top bunk.  
“I’s way over on the other side of the room, but if you need something,” he trailed off.

You were laying of your belly, looking at him over the edge of the bed. “If I need something, I’ll ask,” you promised. You pulled yourself forward so you could press a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“Who did you want to see on the cake?” he asked again. His hat was in his hands, his cigar sat forgotten in his breast pocket, and he looked like the young boy he was. Your age, but too young to get married.

“I think you know,” you whispered back.

“But I want to hear you say it.”

“Maybe,” you said softly, “I’ll see you on a cake someday.”

He grinned. “Not a cake like that, but maybe a cake.” He raised a hand and brushed it against your cheek, almost hesitantly. “Sometimes, when I look at you, I feel,” he said before halting.

“Feel what?” Your heart was in your throat.

He shook his head with a radiant smile. “I feel like something is happening. I’m sure of it.”

With that, he walked away. You watched him until the darkness swallowed him, grinning foolishly. 

You weren’t sure what he felt was happening, but you were hit with the certainty that you were ready for it. The future had a lot of uncertainty, but it promised things that you were suddenly desperate for.


End file.
